Hair of the Dog
by farewellblindgirl
Summary: A Ferrari, A Hot Blond, A Suite at The Grand. The Castle Heartbreak Cure, in Action...


**Disclaimer: ** I really really don't own them. Promise.

**A/N:** This extremely angry/angsty little thing is the product of an interesting conversation that occurred on Twitter last night. The basic question: Did Castle sleep with the stewardess in The Limey? This is my take on it. It was written in one big forty minute push, so it's a bit raw and unedited. Take that for what it's worth.

* * *

He's got the Ferrari pegged at ninety when Beckett calls with a case. It's such a habit, following her to a crime scene, that he gets the directions and starts heading there before he even thinks to blow her off.

Ah, well, at least he can show off the car. And the blond. That's something anyway.

He looks over at the woman sitting in the passenger seat. She'd hit on him on his flight back from Vegas with the universal pickup line - "I love your books." If he had a dollar for every time...

He does have a dollar. He has several dollars, actually, for every time he's heard that line.

After she told him she was in the city for a few days, he called his car service, had them deliver the Ferrari to JFK. Sure, it's a stupid macho move, and probably unnecessary as well, but somewhere over Kansas, he did the math, realized he hasn't gotten laid in eighteen months. Maybe his stupid pining for Kate is just pathetic, instead of romantic, as he's been telling himself.

He needs to get laid. Badly. He's willing to pull out a few extra stops to make it happen.

A few minutes later, he pulls the car into the seedy little motel Kate directed him to. Jacinda gets out, bounds around the car in a delicious little way that tempers some of the regret he has over handing the car over to the woman.

He catches Beckett's eye, imagines for a moment that she's jealous.

Bullshit, he tells himself. "I'll call you in about an hour," he tells Jacinda, closes the door for her.

Beckett gives him a little flack, but he blows her off, putting on his best book-signing version of himself. She calls herself a detective, and she can't see when she's being given the runaround?

Why has he idolized her for so long?

She's on edge around him as they look around the hotel room. He's having trouble focusing on the case, what with the way Beckett is acting and memory of the way Jacinda leaned into him as they waited for his luggage.

When Beckett clears the scene, releases them for the night, he can't catch a cab fast enough.

He calls Jacinda from the back of the cab, finds that she took him up on his offer of a suite at the Grand. He pays the cabbie quickly, bounds past the front-desk into the elevator. She's there at the door the moment he knocks, and she's on him even before he's all the way in the room.

He kicks the door closed, pushes Jacinda back towards he center of the suite. She's lost the uniform, but thankfully hasn't changed into anything as cheesy as lingerie. She's in the terrycloth robe that came with the bathroom. The bottle of champagne he ordered with the room is already opened, partly empty. She didn't stand on ceremony. This isn't a romance.

Fuck romance, he thinks as her legs hit the bed. He lifts her up, throws her back onto the bed. Romance just fills your head with delusions and eighteen months of celibacy.

She's talking as he flips open the sash of her robe, bits of encouragement he doesn't pay attention to. He doesn't need cheerleading tonight. That's not what this is about.

He works his way back up her body, passes the little slip of pink confection of a bra, stops at the valley between her breasts. There is something there he's looking for, though he can't say what.

He starts moving again, upwards, and kisses her, hard.

"Did you catch the bad guy?" she asks, baby-doll like, when he breaks the kiss to catch his breath.

Why do women do that, he wonders? Act like little girls, as if that's a turn-on. He knows it's supposed to be, he's seen the cliche enough times in movies and books, but he's never bought into it himself. Is it supposed to make him feel strong? Powerful? He shakes his head.

He's always preferred his women to be more like Ellen Ripley than Lolita, but then again, it's the Lolitas that seem to want him, so...

The robe and his leather coat get tossed onto the floor, and his shirt follows soon after. He bites at her bra, pulls the strap down with his teeth, and she arcs up into him.

"Oooo... Ricky..."

"Call me Castle," he says.

"Castle," she says, but it's wrong. It's too high, too girly. It's supposed to be deeper, breathier, a sound of acceptance and surrender in one.

Fuck.

He stops, pushes up off of her, squeezes his eyes shut. Fucking Beckett. Fucking hell.

He hates her. He hates himself.

"Ric... Castle? Is something wrong?"

He shakes his head slowly. He stands up, walks very deliberately to the bathroom. He has to concentrate on every step, refrain from his desire to punch a wall. He hears Jacinda call out to him as he walks away, but ignores her.

A few minutes later, he comes out of the bathroom, having gotten himself under control and chalks the whole night up to exhaustion. Jacinda is sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed again in her robe, sipping some champagne.

"You're married, aren't you?" she asks as he comes out. "This happens sometimes. Guy thinks he wants to cheat..."

"I'm not married," he says quickly, not wanting to admit that being here feels very much like cheating.

"Something I did, then?" she asks.

"No... I just figured out something, about my case. I have to go."

"It's okay, Ricky. I don't need an excuse. I didn't think this was going to be more than a one-night thing anyway."

"No, it's not that," he says, "it really is just the case. I'll call you tomorrow? You still here? We could do lunch, maybe... dessert?" He asks. It's not smooth, but he's out of practice.

"Sure," she says, like she knows she'll never hear from him again.

"Good. Tomorrow then," he says, leaning down and kissing her cheek. She gives him a thin smile he ignores.

* * *

It's three am, but he doesn't go home. Instead, he goes to the twenty-four hour gym a few blocks from his house, walking there from The Grand since the Ferrari will be safe at the hotel. He joined the gym years ago, when he realized he didn't want to give up ice cream with his daughter, but having Kate outrun him while wearing four inch heels wasn't going to do much for his masculine image.

He pushes the thought of Kate away. It's unfair that she's even tainting his therapies against her.

He spends ninety minutes hitting the heavy bag, until his hands and lungs are screaming and he can't lift his arms. Then he uses one of the stationary bikes until his back tightens up enough that the pain burns through the fog of his brain, tells him to go home.

At home, he can't sleep. He's exhausted, but too angry and keyed up to nod off, so he finally decides to go take another shower, try to find relief.

He lets the warm water run over him, takes a hold of himself. The thought of Jacinda spread out on the bed gets him nowhere, so he starts thinking about the girls at the strip club he visited in Vegas. It works for a minute or two, enough to get him hard and going, but he can't seem to hold the fantasy long enough to finish himself off.

He stops, pounds the wall in frustration. He needs this, needs it for no other reason than to allow himself to stop thinking, get a few hours of sleep.

He returns to his ministrations, pulling up the images of the club again in his mind. This time, he lets his mind wander to where it always does. He's in the club, watching the short haired blond work through her set, but in a few seconds, she's morphed from the blond to Kate, dancing for him and him alone

The fantasy works as it should, and he cums almost immediately. But instead of relief, he feels only shame. He stands in the shower, his head against the tile, for several minutes before the guilt fades and he cleans himself up.

Why should he feel guilty? Even if she doesn't want him, he can fuck her in his mind, right?

Another hot wave of shame tells him he's wrong.

He doesn't sleep that night at all.

* * *

Somewhere along the line he gets the idea that maybe, just maybe, the confused looks Kate has been giving him are jealousy, so he does what he can to poke at her. Even if she isn't jealous, he knows she hates this side of him and that makes it fun too. Because otherwise, it's just pathetic, him showing up like this, day after day, loyal to some idealized woman in his head that doesn't exist in real life.

He's almost ready to push the issue, force her to reject him, just so he can know for sure, when Detective Inspector Colin Asshole shows up. Hasn't he had to live through this particular play before, with Demming?

At least that time, years ago, he wasn't yet in love with Kate, could go drown his sorrows in Gina.

He texts Jacinda almost immediately.

* * *

He decides to take her to lunch that the Red Rooster, which has the dual benefits of being trendy and being in Brooklyn, so that lunch will take close to the entire day. If Kate can have her blond, he can have his, and he's pretty sure that he's not going to have trouble a second time.

But fifteen minutes into the lunch, he knows he's wrong. Jacinda is bubbly and low maintenance in a way he used to like, but now just finds boring. He knows that if he takes her back to the suite, he's going to have to end up fantasizing again to seal the deal, and well, if he's going to feel gritty and guilty and pathetic for getting laid, then he's just going to go home and fucking jerk off again. At least he can do that in private.

"You know," Jacinda says halfway through the entrée, "I've never had a guy work so hard to not screw me before."

He looks up from his lunch, finally realizes he's being a bit of a dick to Jacinda.

"You said you aren't married, but you certainly act like you're cheating on someone."

He takes a deep breath, tries to figure out how to brush off her concern, but instead it all comes out. Four years of longing and the rest come out in a long pathetic burst of verbal diarrhea.

Jacinda tells him to go after her.

Of course she does. So does his mother, so does Alexis, so does Paula. Women always vote for romance. He needs more guy friends. Ryan and Espo are off limits, as far as this is concerned, and the poker game sort of faded away, after they lost Stephen.

Still, when he heads back to the precinct after lunch, he's actually considering it. He considers it right up to the point that Kate shows up in an a gown for a date with Detective Wanker.

He bribes Jacinda with lobster and Pinot to be his shoulder to cry on for another night.

He jerks off another three times that night, each time trying to think of anything but Kate in that stupid dress, each time failing.

He can't do this much longer.

His resolve almost crumbles again when Kate asks him out for a drink, but in his current twitchy pathetic state, he knows he'll get two fingers of Scotch into the night and start begging her to love him. Luckily Jacinda is taking the red-eye out to London that night, and he's promised her one last dinner and a ride the airport in the Ferrari. He wonders why she's continuing to spend time with him, but he's basically bribing her, and he suspects her life is even lonelier than his, so he doesn't think about it too hard. If she's willing to be his beard, that's fine by him. He doesn't like eating alone anyway.

After he drops her at the airport, he starts driving randomly, finds himself in Queens. He doesn't visit Queens much, or rather, at all, and he's a little worried that he's rather lost in a very conspicous car very late at night. Another part of him just doesn't care. Whatever happens, at least it might be interesting, which is more than he can say of going home, torturing himself with fantasies of Kate fucking Mr. Scotland Yard.

He's gotta make a change. He's usually a pretty happy guy. He doesn't like this version of himself.

He's starting to hate Kate, just a little bit. And he's starting to hate himself, a lot.

He drives for another hour, figures he's gotta be near the south end of the burrough, so there has to be an expressway around here somewhere. He's stuck, he realizes, since he's made a big deal to everyone that he doesn't just come to the precinct to beg at Kate's table for scraps, but he can't keep coming around without losing his mind. He needs a graceful way to extricate himself without looking like he's running away.

He's lost in that thought when someone bangs on his window. He shakes himself free of his stupor, looks out the window to see one of the boys in blue staring at him. He rolls down the window.

"Hey, you need to move on. Shouldn't you be home now?"

He looks past the cop, sees a bunch of other cops across the street. It looks like they've arrested a few dozen guys.

"Sorry, Officer, you know... I work with the 12th."

"Right. Just move on, sir."

"Hey, what happened there?" He asks, nodding at the arrest. "Drugs?"

"Early morning turf war. Which is why a guy like you, in a car like this, shouldn't be out here, this late at night."

"Yeah, got it," he says. When the light turns, he drives off, pulling his GPS out of the glove compartment as he does. He needs to get home. He has an idea.

Maybe a new partner is just what he needs. Maybe from another department. Like Vice... no, there's still a chance there could be a hot Beckett clone there.

Gangs. He'll go to Gangs. It'll be perfect.


End file.
